322 THE CAROLINA MOUNTAINS 
enormous brutes with bloodshot eyes and heaving 
flanks, like the others leaning their weight on the 
yoke, foam dripping from their open mouths. Be- 
hind them came the eleventh and last yoke bending 
to their task, suffering with dumb endurance the 
agony of their brutal labor. 
The chain was longer behind these, and then 
there appeared at the opening and stopped, as the 
cry to halt rang down the line, the end of an enor- 
mous tulip-tree log. Not less than ten feet in diame- 
ter nor less than forty feet long, it lay in the trough 
that had been ploughed out by other logs. As it lay 
there it seemed malignant and conscious, as though 
resenting being torn from its place of pride in the 
forest where it had so long towered above the other 
trees. 
The trail changed its direction at this point and 
the great log had to be turned. Shouts from the men, 
cracking of whips, creaking of yokes, rattling of 
chains — and finally the long line of cattle stood in 
the new line of advance. But the log lay as before: 
it had to be turned, not by the cattle, but by the 
army of men that had now come to view. Along the 
sides of the great column they ranged themselves, 
cant-hook in hand, and at the word of command 
tried to move it, pivoting it on the chain end and 
striving to swing the other end about until it should 
lie in the new line of direction. As the cattle had 
toiled, now toiled the men. The veins started on 
their temples, their eyes stood out, they were silent 
during the effort. 
